This past spring I was honored and overjoyed to be part of NPR Invisibilia’s first live event with Story District.
My Sur/real story of the summer of 2005 –navigating the space between the mystical and the manic — was one of six selected.
I felt a bit like an impostor – included with other heavy hitting storytellers I am in awe of. Working with Amy Saidman, Story District’s Artistic Director is an exercise in the craft of first class storytelling.
Each eight minute story is the end product of several coaching sessions, rewrites and rehearsals. It’s a rare and rewarding collaborative creative process.
And finally my knee-knocking performance April 17th at the Lincoln Theatre in front of a packed audience. Yikes!
Exciting for me but also I really hope my story might resonate with yours. All those listening who also have the gift of a bipolar brain. And those whose spiritual life lights up their world. This one is for you!
I have shouted this story from the rooftops every way I know how both here and in print and on the Story District stage.
For forty-five years out of fear, out of shame, I locked Rebecca away. I was seventeen years-old and kicked out of my Roman Catholic household, the Hester Prynne of my high school. My sin was so mortal, it was dangerous even to speak of it.
My father’s medical practice would be ruined. So Father Kelso, the parish priest (I believe), with a wink and a nod, assured my parents I could be sent to some discrete location. To spare them the scandal. Some Magdalen Laundry. Some home for unwed mothers.
That’s what happened to knocked-up pregnant teenage girls in 1972.
But William and I forged a different path – disowned and on our own.
The Supreme Court’s Roe v. Wade decision was about to come down. But I never struggled with my choice. It was a no-brainer. It simply did not occur to me to “terminate” her or to vacuum her out through a tube. (While I totally understand and support the difficult choices that other women make.)
She was a life inside me. She made me throw up in the mornings. She kicked my insides. She gave me stretch marks. For nine months, occupying my every crevice, she was my most intimate companion. It was just the two of us in the delivery room the day that she was born. No other family members were there.
A child, I gave birth to a child I was unable to keep. The social worker from Pierce Warwick collected her later that week. And handed her over to her older, more stable, more educated, more mature, the so much more ready adoptive mom and dad.
Two people for whom I will be forever grateful.
But before I could let her go, I had to fill out the form. Her birth certificate lay on my hospital tray table. My hand shaking, I filled in the blanks.
Baby Name: Elizabeth Catherine
Name of Mother: Joan Louise Peacock (Me, that’s me.)
Signature of Mother: J o a n________ (Me, that’s me.)
A sealed adoption, this form was locked up tight in a D.C. courthouse for 45 years. In fact, its locked there still.
And for a year and a half now, Rebecca and I have gotten to know one another. We’ve grown close. It’s really quite impossible to imagine my life without her.
I am not her parent. I am Joani. I am bio-mom. But after 18 months, bio has become a cumbersome distinction.
Rebecca says that people have fought for a long time to have two moms. So she reserves the right to call both the mother who raised her and the mother who gave her birth – simply mom.
Rebecca has taught me much about the realities of the adopted life. An adopted child is the only person in adoption who has no choice in the matter.
Adoptees live in an in between world. They are grateful for their adoptive parents and genuinely love the families they grow up in. Simultaneously, they yearn to know where they came from — not just for information but for connection. The hope of reunion. It’s a both/and aspiration.
But many adoptees grow up in an either/or world. DNA does not matter anymore. Only love does, so the adoptee is told. So whatever came before does not matter. In fact, it’s something you shouldn’t talk about or ask about. Because after all, we’re your real family.
And of course, they are. Of course, that is true.
But an adoptee’s life does not begin at adoption. It begins at birth.
Its not just a story of joy, but of grief and loss. Adoption is often born of trauma.
And the stories of the birth moms are written out of the story — whatever their story may be.
Rebecca’s birth certificate, her certificate of live birth has her adoptive mother’s name where mine used to be.
I was so startled. Already a thing of shame, I was erased, irrelevant, like a Handmaid to a Commander’s wife in the Margaret Atwood tale.
Made invisible.
I am one of untold numbers of silent 1970’s birth moms of the “Baby Scoop Era.”
Since I have told my Rebecca story in print, in the pulpit, on stage a swarm of people have come up to me to share their own. That’s my story too. I was adopted. I adopted a child. I adopted a baby from a teenage mother.
But not a single woman has told me that they did what I did. Not a single one.
Because, I believe, even though it is 2018, the shame resonates still.
The birth mom is a sinner. The adoptive mom is a savior.
It is the ultimate and unforgivable sin for a woman to give up a child. You abandoned her, didn’t you?
And so people like me are written out of the story. And because of the shame, we keep writing ourselves out of the story, as well.
But not anymore. No longer hiding, I refuse to be invisible.
And I want to help other birth mothers like me to come out, as well.
So I am determined to write this story — a truer story.
For those of you loyal readers who have followed the tale of reunion with my firstborn daughter Rebecca – and for those of you tuning in for the first time — here is my December 2017 telling of it live on the Story District stage.
The third annual U&U List, full of twists and turns, blessing and curse, presented in whimsical and random order for your year ending contemplation and consideration. (And once you’ve read mine, grab pen and paper and come up with your own!)
2016/2017
61/62
I’m with Her/I’m Still with Her
Bishop Payne Library/Library of Congress
Ghost of Christmas Present/Ghost of Christmas Future
Story District 1st 2nd Tuesday/Story District 2nd 2nd Tuesday
Unorthodox&Unhinged/Sex&The Single Vicar
Milk/Almond Milk
Mulder/David Duchovny
Whole Foods/Harris Teeter
Blogger/Author
Kindle Fire/iPad Mini
Target/Lululemon
Killer ESP/Killer ESP
Kind Bars/Dangerously Delicious Pies
OK Cupid/DC Singles
#NeverTrump/#NeverEverEverTrump
Old Town/Capitol Hill
Metro/Uber
Priest Associate/Associate for Liturgy & Hilarity
La Croix/Spindrift
“Going Clear”/”The Path”
TOMS/Bucketfeet
Knowledge/Wisdom
Maniac/Bibliomaniac
Caffeine/Half Caf
Half Marathons/Half Measures
Lewis Carroll/Christmas Carols
Vacuuming/Dusting
Alphabetical/Color Coded
Worshipper/Whisperer
Friend/Femme Fatale
Sirius XM/Spotify
Keeping Secrets/Spilling the Beans
Break Ups/Make Ups
Cider/IPA
Mom/Mom-in-law
Procrastinator/Finisher
Wedding Chapels/Baptismal Fonts
Aunt Joani/Great Aunt Joani
Nail Biting/Manicures
Rosary Beads/Meditation Apps
Head Bands/Head Space
Fair Trade/Free Trade
Off the Cuff/Office Hours
Early Voting/Emigrating
Curtains/Shades
Tights/Spanx
Blue Glasses/Red Spectacles
Gray Hair/God’s Highlights
Preacher/Teacher
Possibility/Possibilities Publishing
God with us/God within us
Burt’s Bees/Bella Cara
Backpack/Purse
Matchie-Matchie/Mix&Matchie
Out of the Pool/Into the Fire
Road Tripper/Time Traveller
Fit to be tied/Wii Fit
Mood Swings/Climate Changes
6:30/Half Past Six
Business/Pleasure
Ribbon/String
Coworkers/Coconspirators
Democrat/Citizen
Ball Points/Felt Tips
Stuffed Animals/Animal Shelters
Feel the Bern/Feel the Pain
Saint Robin (Williams)/Saint Carrie (Fisher)
“The Tudors”/”The Crown”
Potted Plants/Fresh Flowers
Le Pain Quotodien/Carluccio’s
Starbucks/Stumptown
Victoria’s Secret/Bloomers
Pajamas/Slips
Turtlenecks/Cowl Necks
Collecting/Contemplating
Safety Nets/Safety Pins
Bitches/Bichon Frises
Krispy Kreme/Sugar Shack
Amazon.com/East City Bookshop
Left Turn/”The Right Turn”
Huntley Meadows Nature Park/Flirtatious Downtown Dog Park
Hand Dryers/Paper Towels
E-book/Real Book
Facebook/Instagram
WNS4950/JLPU&U
Baby Spinach/Grownup Kale
Friday Therapy/Wednesday Therapy
Blissed/Blessed
Digestive System/Solar System
Irritable/Anxious
Banker/Debtor
Songster/Dancer
Babbler/Believer
Off Ramp/On Ramp
Oak Trees/Acorns
Hipster/Hope Peddler
Peacock/Like the Bird
Middle Child/Going Wild
Star Gazer/Earth Dweller
And I am ecstatically, exquisitely, eternally grateful to the Creator of the Universe, the Very Ground of my Being for each and every day of each and every year.
Each and every day, even if it be the worst day, is a holy day, a gift.
June 4ththe 9:30 Club was packed with joy and celebration. Happy gay people (and straight people) were everywhere! Coproduced with Capital Pride, Out/Spoken is Story District’s 6th Annual Pride show in DC. Eight great storytellers shared their “true stories told through an LGBT lens”. Revealing, poignant, hilarious, powerful, and moving, I was honored to be a part of it for the very first time.
Out/Spoken is far from done. This fall it’s going on tour. Funded by a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts and sponsored by the Human Rights Campaign, Out/Spoken is headed south. In October the show travels to Atlanta, in November to Birmingham. Yes, by design, directly on to the battleground for LGBTQ equality.
After Orlando, the tour could not be more important. Amy Saidman, SD’s Creative Executive Director, has pledged to redouble Story District’s commitment to bring LGBTQ voices to the stage.
While U&U was on hiatus, I was honored to guest blog for Out/Spoken. I interviewed and “spotlighted” the co-director, the animator, and four of the storytellers.
Amazing people all of them, they will share their stories where LGBTQ voices are seldom heard. There will be local storytellers too – both in Atlanta and Birmingham.
U&U is all about coming out. Coming out of my particular closet. I’ve come out in writing. I’ve come out at work. I’ve come out with friends. I’ve even come out “Unhinged” on stage – the Story District stage — three times. I’ve come out of my bipolar closet to make a difference. Come out crazy.
And now I am excited to report that U&U is going on a little holiday!
I am so psyched to follow this groundbreaking show! Thank you, Story District! Its an honor to sit down with Out/Spoken’s producers, directors and storytellers. I hope the profiles I post along the way will do them all justice, peak your interest, sell more tickets, and help pack the house!
So it seems appropriate to repost my own coming out story — “Naked in Public, or Coming Out Crazy” — first published on U&U in November of 2014.
Here I go.
Naked.
Buck naked.
Locker room naked.
Blame the nuns. Blame eleven years of parochial school. I have never been comfortable naked in the company of strangers. I can count on one hand the number of people in my entire lifetime who have seen me in my altogether. This includes my dear departed mother who changed my diapers:)
Catholic school can mess with your mind and create a crazy kind of modesty. The good sisters told us to put talcum powder in the bath water so we would not see our own naked selves. The water literally had to cover us up to our necks! I guess we were supposed to get undressed with our eyes closed.
So….
High school gym class, I never took a shower. Two years of softball practice, I never took a shower. Three years on the Immaculata basketball team, I never took a shower. Personal hygiene be damned, I never took a shower.
But…
Not because I was modest — because I was TERRIFIED. I was terrified of being exposed. Terrified of baring my bare self to the world. Terrified the world would know everything about me. Terrified of being naked in public.
I am still terrified. I am in the pool twice a week at my local rec center. The locker room is awash with naked ladies of every shape and size. A room full of naked ladies — totally comfortable and free as a breeze. Not me. I go into the “closet” and change my clothes. God forbid a neighbor sees me! God forbid a parishioner sees me! God forbid anybody — but me — sees me.
Totally exposed. Totally vulnerable. Totally out of control. Bare naked for all the world to see.
It is not easy for this bipolar soul to step out of the locker room closet. Those of us who are bipolar have to be very careful where we bare our souls. We have to be very, very careful coming out this particular closet.
Coming out — crazy.
Be careful how you come out. You risk being labeled, categorized, stigmatized, and marginalized. You risk condescension and discrimination. You risk being stereotyped and stuck in a box. You risk being hurt.
A friend– who should know better — told me not to risk it. No one will hire you. No church will call you. You will never be a rector. Maybe never even an associate again. Maybe not even a supply priest. Stay in the closet. Don’t come out. It’s way too risky.
So I didn’t. Instead I tried to educate, elucidate, and illuminate the IGNORANT and the INDIFFERENT with FACTS and FIGURES. Do you know 25% of the world walks around with a mental health issue? Do you know 60% of us will have a mental health issue in our lifetimes? Facts and figures are all well and good. But facts and figures alone make very little difference. Very little difference indeed.
So I took a risk.
I decided that I had to come out of this particular closet. Six years ago I came out to my boss. Four years ago, I came out in the pulpit. I have come out in church forums more than a few times. I now have come out – crazy — in five different parishes.
And in April of 2014, I came out on Unorthodox & Unhinged. And with this post – in words — I have now come out 87 times.
Naked at work.
Naked at church.
Naked on the internet. FaceBooked. Tweeted.
And with this 87th post — a repost of #32, November 6, 2014 — I come out in living color — totally exposed. Kristin Adair, a good friend and mental health advocate, is also a budding photo-journalist. Kristin asked if she could shadow me at work, at home, at church – to profile in pictures — a bipolar life.
Walking the dog, eating breakfast, watching TV, taking meds, hiking Huntley Meadows, blogging on my couch, celebrating the Eucharist.
In my pajamas. In my sweats. In my kitchen. In my bedroom.
Out of this crazy closet — naked for all the world to see.
(Just click the “play arrow” and you can see too!)
And the truth be told — naked — we all look pretty much look alike. Naked — we all have just have about everything in common. Exposed. Vulnerable. Shaking like a leaf — naked as the day we were born – we all look pretty much alike.
Now Adam and Eve tried to cover up with fig leaves. Naked and ashamed and cast out east of Eden. But biblically speaking — Adam and Eve got this naked thing all wrong. And biblically speaking, the flawed and famous King David — got it so, so right.
David paraded the Ark of the Covenant into the city he named for himself…. all the citizens “making merry before the Lord with all their might, with songs, and lyres and harps, and tambourines, and castanets, and cymbals…. David danced before the Lord with all his might… leaping and shouting”…naked as the day he was born….(2 Samuel 6,7)
Michal, his wife, was mortified. David, however, was glorified. Glorified by the God who chose him. Glorified by the God who loved him. Glorified by the God who created him – flaws and all – warts and all. Unashamedly, unabashedly loved him.
So friends, are you ready to get naked with me? Are you ready to get naked in public?
This is a falling out of love story. It happens slowly, incrementally. It happens so slowly you barely notice it.
It happened to me after 28 years of marriage to the boy next door.
His name was William. He was witty and smart and wrote poetry. We would sit on our front lawns talking long after the sun went down. I asked him out first — to the Queen of Hearts dance at my all girls high school. But our first date was to to the movies to see Easy Rider. It was 1970.
We were very hippie-dippy, very crunchy granola. William and I both had long hair down to our shoulders. We both wore “granny glasses” with wire frames. We both bought our jeans and flannel shirts at Sunny Surplus.
We spent our Saturdays at beatnik bookstores and cruising head shops. We’d go to foreign films at the Biograph Theater and drink pitchers of beer at the Tombs — a bar so loud you could barely hear yourself speak.
Just a year older than me, William was my best friend not just my boyfriend. And being just a year younger, I skipped my senior year at Immaculata so that we could matriculate together at Catholic U.
William and I got married in a little civil service at the courthouse. We set up household in a tiny little efficiency on Connecticut Avenue. We even worked together at bilingual daycare center in Adams-Morgan.
It seemed we were meant to be.
I was happily, happily hyphenated for 28 years as Joani Peacock-Clark. Together we juggled jobs, school, three children, friends, family, vacations, church, and just about anything else that you can think of. We juggled things beautifully for a very long time.
William was a stay at home dad and a fabulous cook, and he did all the grocery shopping. I was the career mom who was very good at doing the dishes. And when it came to parenting Zach, Colleen, and Jacob, we were very simpatico — at least on the things that mattered most.
But the last two years of our marriage were bloody awful, god awful. All the things that we had been juggling came crashing down on our heads. And just like Humpty Dumpty, we couldn’t quite put our marriage back together again.
“I love you.” became just something we said but no longer did. Some might consider my marriage a failure. I certainly felt like a failure for a very long time. But it was death that we were dealing with. Our marriage had died.
Marriages die. Relationships die. Some by neglect and some by design. Some by both.
In 2003, I signed the divorce papers. And this Peacock, after 28 years, uncoupled herself from the Clark.
Uncoupling is a railroad term. Circa 1985, The Potomac Yards in Alexandria were the largest railroad switching yards in the country. Struggling to fall asleep in our Delray Bungalow at 212 E. Windsor, we could hear the train cars crashing in the middle of the night. We’d hear the cars coming together and being pulled apart. It sounded like bombs going off. It sounded of wrenching, tearing, coupling, thrashing, and crashing. Passionate and tortuous lovemaking and hearts breaking in the middle of the night.
Now I have only been married once but I have been divorced many times.
I uncoupled from William in 2003.
I uncoupled from a soul destroying boss in 2005.
I have uncoupled from two different life depleting congregations.
I have uncoupled from my toxic and twisted younger sister.
I have uncoupled from a dark and dysfunctional friend.
I have uncoupled from a therapist who thought she knew me better than I know myself.
I have uncoupled from a lover who loved me in words but never in deed.
And I am happier for it, healthier for it, and stronger for it.
Uncoupled, I am on on my own but not alone. And I am not at all lonely.
Uncoupled, I am free to fall in love again and to be loved again. I am open to love wherever I may find it. Professional, personal, playful, passionate or platonic.
I am not looking to get married again. (You could not pay me enough money to get married again!) I am looking for someone who might like to try and keep up with me. Someone who drinks as deeply from the well of life as I do. Someone with a sense of adventure, a desire for intimacy. Someone who reads. Someone who laughs. A partner in crime.
Should this someone come along, that would be lovely. Should this someone also like to share my bed from time to time that would be lovelier still.
Maybe we will find one another walking the Rock & Roll Half Marathon, or drinking coffee at Killer ESP, or hiking Roosevelt Island, or campaigning for Hilary. Maybe we’ll meet at a Story District 2nd Tuesday show, or in the stacks at the library, or in the pool at the rec center, or standing in line at Trader Joe’s. Maybe on a road trip. In March, I am headed to Austin, in April to Denver, and in October to Ireland. Who knows?
I’m game. I am open.
Sometimes you have to fall out of love to find it again.
Sometimes you have to fall out of love to be free.
